


a course for collision

by gothyringwald



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Developing Relationship, Exhibitionism, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Poetry, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 01:03:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7554187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothyringwald/pseuds/gothyringwald
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon accidentally stumbles upon one of Illya's secrets: he writes poetry. At first, he thinks this will be great fodder to tease his partner, but soon he finds he can't get the poems out of his head. They are erotic and romantic, two things he'd never thought to associate with Illya, but now he is seeing his partner in a new light and doesn't know what to do about it.</p><p>AKA the one where Illya writes erotic love poems, Napoleon finds them, and it starts to change their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **The second chapter is the full text of the poems I wrote for the fic. The fic itself is complete in this one chapter.**
> 
> I think this ended up kinkier than I had thought it would. Ha. Anyway, I've spent too long tinkering, and I want to get stuck into _Dirty Dancing: Moscow Nights_ , so I'm posting it as is.
> 
> Title from ["Geometry" by Ken Kesey](http://theysaid.livejournal.com/109973.html). 
> 
> Self-beta'd, as always, so please point out any errors, glaring spelling errors, especially.

Napoleon doesn't mean to snoop. He has snooped before and will snoop again, it's part of the job after all, but today it isn't his intention. It starts with a large pile of paperwork, stern words from Waverly and a lack of working pens. Illya always has an abundance of pens, Napoleon thinks, so he crosses the room to his partner's desk, determined to get his work done, and Waverly off his back, this afternoon.

Haphazard piles of documents and folders cover Napoleon's own desk, but Illya's is impossibly tidy. A place for everything, and everything in its place. It warms Napoleon to think of Illya fussing over his impeccable desk. 

The space where Illya usually keeps his pens – in a neat line, to the right of his typewriter – is empty. Napoleon frowns. He checks the drawers, in case Illya has changed his organisation method, and this is when he spots it. A small leatherbound journal, brown and worn, but clearly cherished, tucked away in a dark corner. Napoleon is drawn to it, can't help but open it, and take a peek inside, while Illya is out of the office.

It only takes thumbing through a few pages to see the journal is filled with poems. _Illya's_ poems. 

_So, Peril writes poetry_ , Napoleon thinks, gleeful. He reads, thinking the poems will be great fodder to tease his partner, until one nearly makes him drop the journal. On the page, in Illya's scrawling hand, are some of the dirtiest words Napoleon has read in his life. 

_Mouth down your chest over your_  
_Cock and lower, yet_  
_Licking against your wanton hole_  
_Quivering thighs, 'yes, please, now'_

_It's about a man_. His mind races at the implications, the possibilities. He flicks through a few more pages. _All the poems are about men_. He knows he should put the journal away, respect Illya's privacy, but as he's closing it the word 'EMPEROR' spelt out in blocky capital letters, at the top of a page, piques his interest. Napoleon is reading the poem underneath it before he can stop himself.

'Waterloo' flashes at him from the end of the poem, and he immediately thinks of Bonaparte. Napoleon flushes.

 _Is this about me?_ Napoleon wonders, wildly, gaze racing over the page. Yes, there is the allusion to Bonaparte but as he reads the whole poem, he knows this can only be about another Napoleon, can only be about him.

_Emperor of thieves, of sparkling women_  
_Smiles, tailored, like your sleek suits_  
_you plunder hearts as easily as jewels (you do not give them back)_  
_your own heart secreted, like a stolen bounty..._

Napoleon's mouth goes dry as he reads the poem, over and over, as though he's trying to memorise it.

_Emperor who kneels at my feet, supplicant before my cock_  
_Surrendering your sovereignty unto me, unto my bed_  
_twisted in my sheets, spread beneath, split open for me_  
_I sink into you, your soul, coming into you_

It is sexy and beautiful and Napoleon's mind stutters over the thought that Illya wrote this. Wrote these words about him.

The familiar sound of Illya's footsteps brings him back to himself and he snaps the journal shut, shoves it into the drawer where he found it and rushes over to his desk. He slides into his chair just as Illya pushes the door to their office open.

'Hello, Cowboy.'

Napoleon mumbles a reply, can't bring himself to look at Illya, lest they make eye contact.

'Everything OK?' his partner asks.

Napoleon nods, hopes Illya is looking at him to see.

'You're all flushed.' Illya sounds concerned. 

Napoleon reluctantly looks up – Illya's brow is furrowed as he regards Napoleon – and clears his throat. 'Yep, fine. Just a bit warm in here, I guess.' His voice sounds strained to his own ears.

Illya's eyes narrow for a moment but then he shrugs, silent, and sits at his desk, quickly engrossed in his own work.

Napoleon slumps, and turns his attention back to the pile of paper in front of him. He picks up a pen, remembers it is empty, and slips out of the office, to get another pen and some much needed air.

*

Napoleon can't get Illya's poems out of his head. It's especially troubling at night. He lays in bed, sheets wrinkled from his tossing and turning, Illya's words playing through his mind over and over. The things Illya had written about him. That he must want to do to him.

_twisted in my sheets, spread beneath, split open for me_

Napoleon groans, the line skipping through his head like a needle over a scratched record.

He has received scented love notes from bold women, irate letters from cuckolded husbands, but no one has ever written poetry about him. That thought alone is arousing, but the words, themselves, burn through him. The poetry seems to penetrate him, bores down into his soul, in a way Napoleon thought nothing ever could.

He touches himself, thinking of the poems, imagining Illya as he writes them. Does it arouse him to pen these words? The way it arouses Napoleon to read them? He thinks of Illya reading them to him, for him. Illya doing all the things to him that he penned in his journal. It is usually thinking of Illya kissing him, touching him, fucking him, that tips Napoleon over the edge, spilling into his own hand, panting and flushed.

It's not the first time he's thought about Illya while he's masturbated, but the poetry makes his fantasies more vivid, alive in a way they never have been. 

Some nights he fingers himself, pretending it is Illya opening him up, getting him ready to be fucked, hard. Illya's fingers tight over his bruised hips as he slams into him, doing his best to make him scream, and Napoleon knows that he would.

But it is the nights that Napoleon thinks of tender words, of Illya crooning them into his ear as he cradles his hips and makes love to him, that he comes the hardest, with Illya's words in his head and his name on his lips.

*

Working with Illya becomes uncomfortable, knowing the other man's secret, lust and guilt and longing warring inside Napoleon all the time. 

He occasionally sneaks looks at Illya's journal, memorising each word, searing them into his brain, his heart. It's only been three weeks but it feels like he's always known the poetry, it's under his skin, thrumming through his blood, in his head all the time.

It's there when he watches Illya's hands as he cleans his gun, imagining those calloused fingers trailing over his skin, pushing into him. He watches Illya's lips as he taps a pen against them, wonders what they'd feel like on his own or wrapped around his cock. Illya, looking at Gaby tenderly, and Napoleon aches to be the recipient of that gentle gaze.

If Illya notices Napoleon acting differently, staring a little too long, he doesn't say anything but Gaby does. She winks at Napoleon when she sees his eyes drift to Illya's ass - Illya reaching down to get a book from the bottom shelf of the bookcase in their office, pants pulled tight - long past being discreet. She leans over and says 'Not very subtle for a spy, Solo.' Napoleon blushes at being caught, eliciting a snicker from Gaby who pats his shoulder as she walks out of the office he and Illya share.

'What was that about?' Illya asks, stretching back to his full height.

Napoleon waves his hand. 'It was nothing.'

Illya shakes his head with an amused smile, goes back to his desk, book in hand, and gets to work. 

Napoleon regards Illya, trying to marry the idea of a man who writes erotic love poems in secret to the man he knows as his partner sitting across the room from him. The man who has fought him, and saved his life, wielding a pen as efficiently as he does a gun. Thinks about those long fingers stained with ink, instead of blood. Imagines the deadliest man he knows penning elegant, sparking words.

It's becoming easier to think of Illya the Poet and Illya the Spy as one and the same, and Napoleon is surprised that it no longer feels like a revelation, like it's something he's always known about him. Napoleon finds he wants to know everything about Illya, every facet of him. It rattles and Napoleon has to push the thought away.

He wonders why he can't tell Illya of his discovery, or at least make a pass at him, certain, or almost, it would be welcome. He doesn't want to think it's because he's scared. Knowing Illya wants to fuck him is one thing, but the weight of the poetry feels like so much more than just lust and Napoleon isn't sure he can handle the implications. He shies from how those words have transformed his own lust to something he is hesitant to name, something that twists and blooms inside him.

*

Moonlight falls through parted drapes, creeping over Illya's room in thick bands, just enough for Napoleon to read by. He finds the journal in the drawers by the bed, spreads it open over his lap, almost reverently. It has been nearly a week since he's been able to indulge, holed up with Illya in a hotel suite in Beirut on their latest mission, never free from each other's company. But tonight Illya is out and Napoleon can't resist the temptation. To his delight, there is a new poem, inky words stretching across the buff page in whorls and loops. 

_His kiss blows through me like bullets_  
_his mouth might be heaven_  
_or maybe purgatory_

_An errant look, across the room,  
and my longing unfolds_

Light floods the room, drawing Napoleon back to reality. 'What are you doing?'

Mind still stuck in the poem, Napoleon freezes, no quick excuse on his tongue like he would normally find.

Illya stalks over to him and snatches the journal from Napoleon's hand. 'How dare you go through my things!'

'Illya, it's not...' 

'This is private, ' Illya clutches the journal to his chest. His face pales. 'Did you _read it_?'

'Yes, but-' Napoleon stands, moves over to Illya, but he stops him with a hand to his chest. The heat of Illya's palm seeps through his shirt, intoxicating, even with the other man's anger directed at him. Illya shakes his head. 'There is no excuse.'

Napoleon's heart thuds. 'Of course, I'm sorry, but if you just listen...'

Illya's hand drops, Napoleon's chest burning cold where it had been just moments ago. 'Get out.'

'Just let me explain.' Napoleon takes a halting step forward, and Illya jolts back immediately. 'Get out before I do something I regret.' Eyes cast downward, Illya jerks his head toward the door. His face is flushed, turned away from Napoleon, hands clenched into shaking fists at his side, one curled violently around the journal.

 _Well, I may as well confess everything_ , Napoleon thinks. But instead of starting at the beginning, or explaining how he can't get this poetry out of his head, he finds himself saying, 'I liked the poems, Illya!'

Head whipping around, Illya glares. 'Do not taunt me, Solo,' he bites out.

'I'm not,' he replies, willing Illya to believe his sincerity, that the past year of their partnership will count for something in that regard.

Illya's gaze is wary, but softer. 'You really liked them?'

' _Yes_.' Napoleon puts everything he's felt since he read that first line into his answer. 'They are- I've never read anything like them.'

The bed squeaks as Illya sits heavily, dropping his head into his hands. 'Did you read all of them?' He looks up at Napoleon from between his fingers.

Napoleon nods, surprised at how quickly Illya's anger has dissipated, turned into uncertainty.

Illya blanches, again. 'So you know that I wrote about...'

'Me?' 

Illya swallows thickly and hums his assent. 

Napoleon lowers himself onto the bed, settling next to Illya. 'That's what I liked most.'

Not looking at him, Illya asks, 'Really?'

'Of course.' Voice shaky, he adds, 'Illya, you have no idea what your poems have done to me.'

Illya looks up, now, only as far as Napoleon's mouth, gaze seemingly stuck there. 'You were never meant to know.'

'I'd say I'm sorry, but it wouldn't be true.'

Illya huffs out a laugh. 

'I mean, I'm not sorry I know about the poems. That you wrote about me.' Napoleon tentatively places his hand on Illya's knee and thrills when Illya places his own hand on top of Napoleon's, threading their fingers together.

'I suppose I'm not sorry you know, either.' Illya's eyes dip, dark lashes fanning across his cheeks and Napoleon's stomach flutters. He remembers this shyness from their first mission, in Illya's awkwardness with Gaby, but to be the reason for it is electrifying.

Voice scraping up his throat, Napoleon asks, 'Would you read me one?'

Chewing his lip, Illya says, 'I don't know...' but he must see something he needs in Napoleon's face because then he nods, 'OK', and Napoleon takes the journal from his hand, opening it to his favourite poem, 'Emperor'.

He hands the journal back to Illya, points, 'this one,' and Illya stands, placing a hand on Napoleon's shoulder to keep him where he is sitting. The light fixture behind Illya casts him in shadow, haloes his gold hair. Napoleon is struck by the other man's strong beauty as he waits for him to start reading, palms damp where they rest on his thighs. Illya draws in a deep breath and the words Napoleon knows so well flow out of him, voice small at first, then gaining strength as he goes on.

It is better than Napoleon had ever imagined, to hear Illya speaking these words, his smooth voice washing over him. His heart speeds up, breath shallow, as he looks up at Illya and their eyes lock; can't quite believe this is really happening.

Illya pauses, looking at Napoleon, who shifts under the gaze, mouth going dry. 'Don't stop reading.'

'Is this...' Illya bites his lip, eyes drifting down Napoleon's body and back up to his face. 'Is this arousing for you?'

Napoleon nods, heart thundering, and Illya moves closer so Napoleon has to arch his neck to see his face. It makes him feel vulnerable, and Napoleon is surprised that he doesn't mind, that it seems to charge something within him that he never knew existed.

'Does it turn _you_ on?' Illya doesn't answer, just reaches out as if to touch Napoleon's face, then lets his hand drop back to his side. 

'You can touch me if you want,' Napoleon says but Illya shakes his head and Napoleon thinks he hears him say 'not yet' before he sucks in a deep breath. 'But I want to see you.' The words rush out of Illya, like he had to force himself to say them.

Napoleon flounders. 'I don't...'

'I want to see you,' Illya repeats as though that will clarify anything. 'Take off your clothes.'

Napoleon's eyes widen. 'Oh.'

Illya looks uncertain. 'Is that- would that be OK?'

Napoleon stands up, slips his jacket off, by way of answer. He unbuttons his shirt with shaking hands, not entirely sure where this is going, but wanting to give Illya anything he wants, right now. Always. His undershirt follows, then his belt, his pants after he fumbles with the fly, his socks and soon he is standing only in his tented briefs. Illya can have no doubt, now, as to how much this is affecting Napoleon. 

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, looks at Illya, questioning, and at a dip of the blond's head, slips out of his briefs, body on full display.

Napoleon has never been shy about being naked but under Illya's watchful eye, and with the other man fully clothed, he feels more exposed than he ever has. He supposes it's fair, that Illya must feel like this too, knowing Napoleon has seen what he never should have. But he still burns under Illya's gaze.

'Should I-should I sit back down?'

'Yes.' 

Illya motions for Napoleon to move up the bed, until his back hits the headboard, cool and solid, and sits down by his feet. He's not touching Napoleon at all. The downy comforter slides against Napoleon's naked skin as he shifts, stretching his legs out in front of him, palms resting on the bed by his thighs. 

The journal is in Illya's lap, now, and Illya stares at it intently as he says, 'Touch yourself.'

Napoleon, breath hissing out of him, is certain he can't have heard that right. 'Pardon?'

Illya looks up, eyes dark. 'Touch yourself. While I read for you.' Illya blushes. 'Please'. Somehow he is commanding and shy all at once and it sends a spark through Napoleon.

He draws his knees up, heels digging into the springy mattress, parting his legs and fists his hand over his cock, slowly, teasing himself. 'Like this?' His eyes flutter shut but he snaps them open, has to see Illya as he does this.

'Yes.' Illya leans closer, sight stuck on Napoleon's cock sliding through the tight ring of his fingers. They stay like this for long moments – Napoleon pumping his hand and Illya watching, enraptured – until Illya blinks, turns back to the journal, and, voice shaky, reads again. He looks up at Napoleon through long lashes every few words.

It's the most erotic thing Napoleon has ever experienced. Illya fully clothed, sitting at his feet, reading dirty love poems he wrote in secret while Napoleon, stark naked, masturbates for him. It's also more intimate than anything he has ever done, he thinks, and he and Illya aren't even touching. It's terrifying and exhilarating.

If it weren't for the occasional hitch of breath and the pretty flush dusting his cheeks, Napoleon would think Illya entirely unaffected by it all.

'I've been doing this a lot, lately,' Napoleon says, breathless. 'Touching myself. F-fucking my hand, thinking about your poems.'

Illya swallows audibly, flush deepening.

'But it's so...' Napoleon trails off with a lewd moan as he twists his wrist. 'So much better, with you here.' He traces a hand over his chest, down to his stomach, then back up, fingers tangling through his hair.

Illya stutters, emits a small, choked noise and Napoleon would feel smug at breaking his composure if he wasn't so far gone, himself, already.

Orgasm building, Napoleon hastens his movements, fucking up sweetly into his hand, barely hearing Illya any more. He is so close, right on the edge, and then Illya wraps a hand around his ankle, slides it up his calf and it tips Napoleon over. He gasps out 'Illya' as he comes into his hand, the world falling away.

Dimly, he wonders what he must look like, slumped against the headboard, legs splayed and chest heaving, covered only in a sheen of sweat. Completely naked while Illya is completely not. He watches Illya through hooded eyes but his face is shadowed, and inscrutable beyond that. His breathing seems faster, though, Napoleon thinks, shallower. Illya puts the book aside and crawls over Napoleon, dark eyes heavy on his, reaching for his hand, the one sticky with his come. Napoleon's eyes widen as Illya laps his tongue over his palm, in between his fingers, leaving a tingling trail as he licks him clean. 

'Oh, fuck, Illya.' Napoleon never thought his hand could be so sensitive.

Illya leans in and kisses him, fingers sinking into his chest hair and Napoleon tastes himself on Illya's lips.

'God, Napoleon, you are...' 

'I'm what?' Napoleon shifts under Illya, who kisses Napoleon, filthy and hot. He presses his body up toward the other man's warmth, question forgotten, and Illya's clothes drag over his too sensitive skin, belt digging into his stomach, and it is perfect.

With quick hands, Napoleon untucks Illya's shirt, pushing under, fingers digging into supple flesh. Illya traces his tongue along Napoleon's bottom lip and Napoleon opens to him, their tongues pushing against each other. Kissing Illya is heady, and likely to be addictive, Napoleon thinks.

They pull away, the air damp between them, and Napoleon cups Illya's jaw, stubble rough on his palm. 'I never thought I'd inspire anyone to write poetry.'

Illya nuzzles into Napoleon's hand, presses a kiss to it. 'You inspire a great many things in me, Napoleon.' 

Napoleon's heart skips. He leans up for another kiss and, eager to feel Illya's skin against his, pushes at Illya's shirt, again, until it is bunched around his ribs. Illya stays his hands and Napoleon grunts, frustrated. 'Why are you still wearing clothes?'

Illya smirks, bites his earlobe, playfully. 'Who said I planned on taking them off?'

'Please, Illya, come on.' Napoleon can hear the whine is his own voice but he's beyond caring.

'Well, since you asked so nicely', he says, and leans back on his haunches. Clothes fall to the floor in a blur, his hasty actions belying his earlier teasing. Napoleon only has a moment to marvel at Illya's physique before he is pounced upon, and they are finally – finally – touching skin to skin all over. Their legs tangle together, and Napoleon pulls the other man closer, can't get close enough, letting Illya ride against his thigh. 

Napoleon teases his fingers over Illya's impressive erection. 'And what are we going to do about this?'

Illya's eyes drift closed and his hips stutter. He traces a thumb over Napoleon's cheek, down to his lips. 'Hmm, I think I have an idea.' He pushes his thumb into Napoleon's mouth, who moans, tongue swirling around it. His mind swims with the thought of Illya's cock in his mouth, instead. Illya growls as Napoleon nips the pad of this thumb, hips pushing Napoleon into the mattress.

Napoleon grins and pushes at Illya's shoulders, until they are flipped over, Illya glorious beneath him. Mouthing down Illya's body, he pauses to flick his tongue over a nipple, eliciting a gasp. He presses a wet kiss to Illya's belly, quivering beneath his lips, nuzzles into coarse curls.

Illya watches, pupils blown wide, as Napoleon wraps his hands over Illya's hips, and takes him into his mouth. He bobs his head, rolls his tongue, and Illya's hand sinks into his hair, twisting, the sharp pain exquisite, shooting straight to his dick. Napoleon moans around Illya, making the other man buck his hips. Napoleon gags, but pushes through, knows this well, remembers how much he loves it.

'Sorry', Illya says, face ruddy with arousal.

'It's OK. I don't mind.' Napoleon wipes across his mouth. 'You can do that if you want.' Illya's eyes are nearly black as he nods.

Napoleon sinks back down and then Illya is fucking up into his mouth, hips snapping, hand guiding him, down and down. Napoleon relishes this surrender of control to Illya, who is gorgeous spread out before him, fucking his mouth so completely. His world narrows to the scent of sweat, the taste of Illya on his tongue, the heat thrumming all around them. The little whines from the back of Illya's throat, his small choked grunts, turning Napoleon on more than if he were moaning or screaming with abandon.

'Napoleon, you're so...' Illya breaks off as his dick hits the back of Napoleon's throat. 'Napoleon you're so beautiful.' Illya traces his free hand along Napoleon's hollowed cheek, knuckles kissing the skin. 'So beautiful and strong and ah...' he trails off, again, hips rolling up. 'So perfect with my cock in your mouth.'

Arousal buzzes beneath Napoleon's skin, has been building since he took Illya into his mouth, and he can no longer ignore it, reaching down to stroke himself in time with Illya's thrusts. Familiar heat coils through him, so he takes Illya in fully, nose buried in dark blond curls, presses his tongue to that spot that makes Illya tighten his grip in Napoleon's hair. The line of Illya's body tenses, and he pushes Napoleon down further, and further until Illya is crying out, dick pulsing in Napoleon's mouth, who swallows and lets Illya ride out his orgasm.

Napoleon pulls off, looks up along the length of Illya's body to see he has his head thrown back, showing the elegant arch of his neck. As he fucks into his hand with quick short thrusts, he watches the rise and fall of Illya's chest, damp with sweat, the bob of his Adam's apple. Illya pets his hair, gently, and Napoleon presses his face into Illya's thigh as he comes, his second orgasm blinding.

He crawls up the bed, flops down, boneless and floating, and through the buzz in his head hears Illya say 'that was amazing'.

His eyes close of their own accord and he feels the bed dip and shift, sheets rustling as Illya moves about. The other man barks out a laugh, startling Napoleon. 'What?' he asks, through his post-orgasm haze.

In Illya's hand is his journal, cover shiny with what Napoleon can only guess is his come. Napoleon throws an arm over his face and groans. 'Sorry'.

Illya pulls his arm away, leaning over him with an amused smirk. This close, Illya looks nearly as wrecked as Napoleon feels, though his limbs seem more steady. 'It's OK. I always thought the cover was a little plain, anyway.'

A laugh sputters out of Napoleon. He loves Illya like this. He's familiar with his sense of humour, of course, but he is more relaxed than Napoleon has known him and it fills his heart to bursting. 

He watches Illya's easy movements with satisfaction as he wipes the cover, sets the book on the night stand, and settles onto his side. Napoleon lets himself be manhandled, with little protest, until he is facing Illya, and they are kissing, languid and gentle.

Napoleon sighs, content, and fingers Illya's wrist, brushing over the bump of bone. 'And now that you have me will you keep writing me poems?'

'Of course. I'll write you a thousand poems, Napoleon.'

'A thousand?' Napoleon asks, eyebrows raised, and Illya nods, hand stroking over Napoleon's flank. 'That's ambitious.'

'A mere trifle with you as my muse.'

There is a teasing edge to Illya's words but a truth, too, that warms Napoleon. 'You know, I never really pegged you as a secret romantic.' Illya grins, a rare thing, and Napoleon's stomach swoops. He clears his throat. 'Tell me about these thousand poems, then.'

'Hmm,' Illya considers him. 'A sonnet for your thighs.' Illya's hand skates along Napoleon's rump down to his knee. His gaze drifts back to Napoleon's mouth. 'An ode to your overbite.'

This startles a laugh from Napoleon. 'My overbite?'

'Yes, it's very charming.'

Napoleon tries not to smile, hiding his face in the pillow, but Illya noses his way in and kisses him until his lungs ache.

'I could compose epic poems about your ass.' Illya's breath is hot on Napoleon's face. 'And how much I want to fuck you.' He squeezes Napoleon's ass, fingers teasing along his crack, making Napoleon whimper. 

A wet kiss lands on Napoleon's jaw, and Illya pulls back, the teasing, the dirty talk, making way for a serious expression. He places his hand over Napoleon's heart. 'Napoleon, I...' He sighs, eyes drifting closed.

Napoleon places his own hand atop Illya's, and leans in to kiss him, slow and full of promise. He thinks he knows what Illya wanted to say, or at least the sentiment of it, but it's too much, right now.

The air is tense with unspoken words, and Napoleon's stomach churns at the thought of them, not ready, not just yet. He watches Illya, expectantly, wonders if he will find the words he was searching for, but the moment breaks and the atmosphere shifts back to lazy contentment.

Illya brushes the back of his hand over Napoleon's forehead. 'You look tired, let's get some sleep.' Something shifts in Illya's face and he adds, 'You are staying?'

'Of course I am,' Napoleon answers. He thinks of quipping 'don't think my legs would make it to my room, anyway' but Illya is looking at him so openly, so hopefully, that he only repeats 'of course' and places a chaste kiss on Illya's lips. 

Napoleon pushes Illya onto his back, earning a chuckle from the other man, and curls himself over him, nestles his head against Illya's shoulder. He looks up at Illya who seems surprised – presumably at this affectionate, cuddly version of himself that very few see – and rests a hand on Illya's chest. 'Will you read me another poem, first?'

A warm smile replaces Illya's bewilderment. 'Of course,' he says, and reaches over for the journal, again. The gentle rumble of Illya's voice, the solid warmth of Illya beneath him, lulls Napoleon to sleep, and, for the first time in his life, he is glad of being caught.

*

'I got something for you.'

Illya looks up from his work with a quizzical frown. 'Oh?'

Napoleon produces a small package from behind his back and hands it to his partner. 

'What is it?' Illya turns it over in his hands, inspecting the plain paper and rich ribbon, with a careful eye.

Napoleon grins. 'Open it and see.'

Illya rolls his eyes, fondly. He slides open the ribbon, coiling it and setting it aside, reaches for a letter opener to cut the tape without damaging the paper. Affectionate amusement bubbles within Napoleon as he watches Illya's careful and methodical approach to opening the package. Eventually, Illya's efforts reveal a small, modest journal, similar to the one Napoleon discovered all those weeks ago.

A small smile plays across Illya's features. 'Thank-you.'

Napoleon leans on one hand, over Illya's desk. 'Well, I figured I owed you a new one, seeing as I, uh, decorated your other journal.'

Illya laughs and it is glorious, making Napoleon's heart thump hard. 'You did. And so prettily, too.' He looks up at Napoleon, a crooked smirk on his handsome face.

Napoleon idly fiddles with a stapler, which Illya immediately moves back into place. 'So, you like it?'

'I do, very much.' Illya stands and walks around the desk, pulls Napoleon to him by his waist. 'Thank-you, Cowboy.' Illya kisses him deeply, not caring that they are at work, and anyone could walk in.

'Oh, you're more than welcome, Peril.' Napoleon is breathless. 'Besides, now you can start on those thousand poems you owe me.'

Illya laughs, again. 'You are incorrigible.' Napoleon grins and leans up for another kiss, Illya eagerly responding, and it is better than even a million poems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last line is so cheesy, but, boy, do I love me some cheese!
> 
> I'm still pretty new to writing smut but practice makes perfect right? ;D 
> 
> I wrote the poems myself, which was a challenge and a half. I used to dabble in poetry as a teenager but it's not something I've really attempted to be good at, before, so it was an interesting exercise (and so one, at least, ended up a bit teen angsty haha)
> 
> But would anyone want me to post the whole poems in a second chapter here? I mean, I wrote them after all, may as well post them, right? There's only three.
> 
> Find me [on tumblr if you like - it's mostly the new Ghostbusters over there, right now.](http://gothyringwald.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here are the poems in full! Thanks to everyone who encouraged me to post them. They're more like rough drafts as I spent little to no time editing, but they served their purpose for the fic :)

**Emperor**

Emperor of thieves, of sparkling women  
Smiles, tailored, like your sleek suits  
you plunder hearts as easily as jewels (you do not give them back)  
your own heart secreted, like a stolen bounty

Emperor, throne of silk sheeted hotel beds  
Supple flesh over forceful muscle and sinew  
the symmetry of your strong limbs, electric with desire  
the tenderness of you when you think no one sees

Emperor who kneels at my feet, supplicant before my cock  
Surrendering your sovereignty unto me, unto my bed  
twisted in my sheets, spread beneath, split open for me  
I sink into you, your soul, coming into you

Emperor, crown of curls on my pillow (after, sated, sleepy)  
body stretched beside me, I trace your spine, palm your belly  
blue eyes, the darker speck in one, piercing me  
I think here is my Waterloo, and I fall free

**Flesh on flesh**

Flesh on flesh  
Naked, together, at last  
Breath hot on my neck

My cock, hard,  
Slips against your bruised  
Hip

(Shape of my thumbs, dark on your pale skin)

Kiss on your neck  
Mouth down your chest over your  
Cock and lower, yet

Licking against your wanton hole  
Quivering thighs, 'yes, please, now'  
Tongue working in and out, out and in  
Slick with spit and hot

I pull away. A whine scratches up your  
throat.  
'Ready?' A nod.

My cock now where my tongue was  
(Inside you. Hot. Tight.)

A moan, from you, or from me?  
Fucking, staccato rhythm, sweaty skin slapping.  
Months of longing built up and it won't last  
long, not nearly long enough

Crescendo, pulling, wrenching a gasp  
'Yes, like that'  
Coming too soon, not soon enough

The rise and fall of your chest against  
mine.  
The pull of sleep and I think I hear  
'I love you'

**The yearning song**

His kiss blows through me like bullets  
his mouth might be heaven  
or maybe purgatory

An errant look, across the room,  
and my longing unfolds

Nights as I sleep  
the ache of his love tangles in my soul  
(like my fingers tangling through his curls)

This is the yearning song of my secret heart:  
The lonesome ecstasy  
of being loved by such a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It felt so weird writing that dirty poem but if it's [good enough for Auden](www.vulture.com/2008/03/how_dirty_is_that_auden_poem_t.html), right? ;D


End file.
